


As It's Always Been

by AkumaStrife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles does what he does best, regardless of what form their relationship takes. Whether that means facing murderous creatures and psychos alike, or making pancakes at 3am, it’s all important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As It's Always Been

Scott sleeps over a lot after he gets the bite. A lot more than when his parents got divorced, but not as often as when Stiles’ mom died. A vague number somewhere in between the tragedies that make up their life like a connect-the-dots picture—it sometimes keeps Stiles up at night, fretting and wondering why the hell it always has to be them. 

A vaguely frequent number of nights that Stiles’ dad stopped asking about; stopped asking if Scott was okay whenever he’d find the boy wrapped up in Stiles’ sheets, or at the breakfast table before school. Sometimes Scott would be there when Stiles’ wasn’t. 

It’s better there, drowning in Stiles’ scent and the familiar. Easier to cope with the changes and the uncertainty, easier to avoid his mom’s concern and that look full of so much love and hopelessness it breaks him every time. 

And the nightmares. 

Those too real dreams about his feet slapping against wet leaves and mud and twigs cutting into his skin. The darkness and the fear and the feeling of hot, putrid breath blowing over the back of his neck. Electric in the way he can sense the sharp teeth just inches behind, reaching and snapping and so goddamn close. The pair of red eyes shinning out from in between the trees. Like beacons calling him home. Except it doesn’t feel like home, whenever the Alpha is near. It feels like submission and exhaustion. Violation. His skin crawling under that heavy, possessive gaze. 

Sometimes in his dreams the Alpha catches him. Hooks claws and fangs into him and punishes him, kills him. Or the deep rumble that resonates from _everywhere_ and those claws just barely touching him, stroking him and toying with him. Marking him with teeth and blood and those piercing eyes that leave gaping wounds deeper than his skin where they cannot heal. Making Scott his. 

If Scott’s lucky, when he wakes up screaming or otherwise, Stiles is there (which is a lot of the time these days). Is there to shush him and sooth him with quiet words, mumbling about how _everything is going to be okay_ and _it was just a dream_ and _c’mon Scott I’m right here_. Pets his hair and presses his forehead against Scott’s, keeping him grounded as he brings him down. Places his hand over Scott’s heaving heart; takes Scott’s hand—claws and all—and holds it over his own as an anchor. Lets Scott roll them over and hold him down into the mattress, a thigh fitting smoothly between his own and mouth at his throat. Not bitting, just open against his skin to breathe him in and feel Stiles’ pulse fluttering. And Stiles gives that to him, always gives him that dominance and control. 

And when Scott’s stopped sweating and his limbs stop shaking and his eyes dim, his fangs and claws retracting, he’s too wired to sleep. So very awake and aware, his eyes bloodshot and dry, but too afraid to blink. Too afraid of falling back into that hell. So Stiles grumbles and sighs and rolls out bed, almost tripping as he tugs on sweatpants with one hand and intertwining his fingers with Scott’s with the other. He leads him downstairs into the dark house, flipping lights on as he goes, leaving a bright trail for Scott to follow when he gets tired again. 

Stiles talks to himself aloud, or tells Scott about the book he read days before, as he collects things for waffles or crepes or french toast (whatever he feels like at the moment, or whatever he has the energy for). And Scott smiles in relief, watching Stiles putter around the kitchen, making too many trips to the fridge or the cupboard because he’s too tired to actually process a recipe.

When Stiles wakes up more he talks faster and focuses on what he’s doing less, and Scott has to get up to follow him around and clean up his messes. Turning off burners and picking a bit of egg shell out of the mix; catching the whisk before it rolls off the counter and flipping forgotten pancakes before they burn. The simplest of recipes turn into a two person chore, and Scott hovers into Stiles’ space—hands braced on the counter on either side of Stiles’ hips and leaning his chin on his shoulder. Soaking in the calming scent Stiles puts off; affection and hectic happiness and warm sleepiness that affects him much like hot milk. Lets it burn away the fear and sickness lurking at the back of his mind.


End file.
